


Time Traveler

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, M/M, Romance, Time Traveler's Wife - Freeform, permanent hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 22:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: Read-at-your-own risk, an unfinished "Time Traveler's Wife" Klaine AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

_May 25, 2029_

"Thank you, thank you, thank you so much."

Blaine's hands are trembling as he cradles the Tony.

It's happening, and he can't stop it.

He doesn't dare look down, convinced that the nerves numbing his legs are already yanking him away, to the past, to a time before _this,_ before awards, before fame, and he swallows back bile at the thought of disappearing _here_.

There are hundreds of people in the audience and dozens of cameras trained on him. He'd never make it out of a laboratory or in one piece: they'd want his DNA, a sample of every tissue, a thousand scans, a relentless tide of interrogations and news coverage and stories about _the time traveler among us._

Knowing how chaotic it would be, emotional whiplash either way, he'd been both anticipating and dreading this day for months, working through every calming exercise he could get his hands on, hoping against hope that maybe it wouldn't happen.

He knew it wasn't going to go according to plan when woke up tangled in sheets on the wrong side of the bed, covered in a cold sweat and _heavy_. Kurt was already busy making toast and eggs, turning to smile at him in that familiarly fond way as he stepped into the kitchen, not yet aware of the storm clouds gathering, only prescient enough to sense how well-needed a quick good-morning kiss was. And Blaine was too sleep-heavy to deepen it but gratefully accepted the arm Kurt looped around his waist, concern finally slipping into his unruffled appearance.

" _You look tired."_

" _I am tired."_

And there it was: Kurt's lips quirked downwards and at last the idyll vanished, replaced by the reality.

Blaine knew he was worried. He's worried too, and even around the thundering in his ears he can feel the tiny hairline fracture of nerves splintering down his fingers to his hands and down his arms, fanning out from his torso until every inch of him feels mired in _fear_.

He can't travel on an empty stomach or with sluggish reflexes. He _has_ to be alert or he won't jump aside quickly enough from a car that could never have seen him coming or a stage piece never meant to hold a human's weight, but he can't stop them anymore than Kurt can so he waves a hand dismissively and takes a seat, leaving Kurt to continue making breakfast in conversational silence.

And that's when it had settled in his stomach, the certainty that the shifts weren't merely happening but _increasing,_ and some part of his genes was running haywire. Already, swaying gently on his feet, he feels half-drowned, barely able to catch his breath between shifts, putting on one façade only to shed it as soon as he vanishes and appears in a choir room full of kids or a hospital, cradling a smashed wrist he didn't pull out of the way _in time_. He can never predict where he'll show up, only that _it's happening,_ and Kurt's eyes acquire that dark, worn edge even as he presses a tender kiss to Blaine's cheek if he's there at all and promises, "I'll be here."

And he is. He always, always is, and maybe if Blaine can't hold onto his world he can hold onto Kurt.

Applause and bright lights and his own heartbeat bring him back to the present, and he tries to swallow down the fear and show only the joy he feels, the tears in his eyes as genuine as the pulse in his wrist.

Kurt's out there, he knows, watching him. Kurt can probably already see the tell-tale tremor, edging out of his seat and slipping wordlessly back stage because if there's anyone who will catch him when he falls, it's Kurt.

He can't let it preoccupy him. He has to be here, to be in the now even as every nanosecond feeds fear into his consciousness. Even as he knows that he is exactly as capable of stopping it as he is halting a moving train.

Even as dread creeps into terror at the thought of his life _after_ this if he dares vanish too soon, there's a shine of amazement and joy and wonder in his eyes and a smile on his face that just won't disappear as he cradles the award." To any audience member, he thinks, he must appear nothing more than deeply moved, overwhelmed by the unlikelihood that he would ever win a Tony award, let alone by thirty-five. But here he is, and the train is edging him back slowly but he'll stay his ground if he has to break every bone in his body to do it.

"This is -- such an honor," he manages, forcing every word out like he's trying to breathe underwater, holding the air in his lungs like it can ground him. "I don't want to take too much of your time so I'll keep this brief." And he's gasping, but it's quiet, subdued, and Kurt's gone, he knows, frantic in that _If I'm fast enough, I can catch you_ way that both of them know is a lie, slipping unseen from his seat and towards him, promising safety and sanity and security if he can _just get there in time_.

"I'd like to thank -- my husband, Kurt, for supporting me. And I'd like to thank my parents and my entire Glee club family. I wouldn't be here without you."

He takes the tiniest of bows to great applause, he's well-liked and he knows that his aren't the only teary eyes in the audience, and takes exactly ten steps -- _ten nine eight seven six five four three two one--_

And vanishes behind the curtain just as Kurt's arms close around him, the warmth of their hug already fading, the flash of cameras never catching the switch as he plunges down, down, down, back in space, back in _time_ , and the last thought he has is _It's not your fault._


	2. Chapter 2

_February 20, 2016_

_Blaine is 22, Kurt is 22._

"Lottery numbers."

"Sam."

"Movie sequels."

" _Sam."_

"Elvis Presley?"

"What about him?"

"Can you meet him?"

"... We've been through this, I can only travel back--"

"Have you _tried_?"

Blaine sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and willing patience to come. "Yes. And no, I haven't been successful."

"Maybe you just need to channel your inner Presley harder."

"My inner -- okay, you know what, maybe you should try."

 _That_ gets Sam's attention, his step actually coming to a momentary halt so Blaine walks into him with an _oomph._

He waits, then asks, "Sam?"

"Shush."

"Oh my God. You're actually trying." Fiddling with the cold cup of his coffee and waiting for Sam's patience to run out, Blaine sighs and says, "Still here."

"Because you just broke my concentration."

"You're not going to--"

"Shush."

Sighing, Blaine takes a sip of his coffee, looking around the quiet city streets and hoping that no undistracted strangers happen to walk their way. It's cold and late and his nose is starting to freeze in the open air, but Sam could bench-press him, he's _not_ going to be moved with a few pleading tugs, so Blaine has no choice but to stand there like a very misguided tourist staring aimlessly at the streets and occasionally choking down lukewarm coffee.

Every bone in his body aches to be back home cozying up to Kurt, but Kurt's working a late shift and he promised Sam he'd go out with him, even if it's too cold to go clubbing and he's exhausted besides. Coffee felt like a safe compromise except he forgot what caffeine did to Sam and what it _didn't_ do to him: namely, provide a well-needed energy boost.

By the time Sam's ears turn red from concentration, Blaine grabs his arm and hauls him forward, forcing a deep inhale into Sam and earning another, "Dude, I was so close that time."

"Come on. Maybe I'll take you with me next time."

Sam's shoulders straighten, child-like enthusiasm radiating from him. "Seriously?"

Blaine sighs, because they've _been through this,_ how many iterations will it take before these things stick? Still, he's a good friend, so all he says is, "I can't, Sam."

And Sam's enthusiasm evaporates, but he still tosses a companionable arm around Blaine's shoulders, squeezing tightly. "Just don't go anywhere tonight, okay? You promised me we could have our Epic Bro Night this week."

"I'll try not to," he assures dryly.

It's the truth; he can't control it, either way. ( _and if he could he never would have left, would have screamed himself hoarse rather than waking a terrified Kurt in the middle of the night because his sobs are too loud and I left him I left him I left him_ ).

Sam gives his shoulder a last squeeze before retracting his arm, and they walk together along familiar sidewalks, Blaine offering the occasional nod or mmhm between habitual sips of coffee as Sam fills the space with conversation. He wishes he could be more engaged, wishes he could be the friend that he once was ( _always was; you're not a doppelganger, no more than he is_ ), but it's harder, nowadays.

He's twenty-two, but he feels ancient, timeless, a relic from a future that doesn't exist yet and maybe never will.

If there are other time travelers, he's yet to meet them. He's never heard of a whisper of it on the Internet, never seen even the tiniest mention of an anomaly like his in the paper, never caught sight of a strange blip that wasn't just poor editing in a YouTube clip.

He is truly, utterly, entirely alone, and he doesn't know if he's glad ( _I wouldn't inflict this on my worst enemy_ ) or devastated.

And then he gets a pit in the bottom of his stomach and has to stop and knows his face goes pale at the same moment Sam says, "You okay?"

"Fuck," he breathes, and Sam lets out a long exhale, running a hand through his hair and wordlessly accepting Blaine's satchel, his coffee trembling hard in his hands. "I'm so sorry."

"I'll tell Kurt," is all Sam says, and there's resignation in his voice but a quiet, familiar promise in it, too, a _you're my best friend, Blaine_ and _I don't care that you travel through time._

Sam Evans is many things, but one can't exclude his inexhaustible patience from him. 

And Blaine catches him in a hug, a tight arms-around-the-throat hug that makes Sam grunt and probably looks like a lover's farewell from afar, but he knows who he loves, who his heart belongs to, and Sam does, too, and merely squeezes him back before he's gone.

* * *

_June 15, 2010._

_Blaine is 22, and 15._

The first rule of time traveling is _don't meet yourself,_ so naturally it's the first rule that Blaine breaks.

The second rule of time traveling is _don't fuck shit up._ Sam invented that one, but as far as Blaine's concerned it's foolproof.

He still has scars from the day he tried to break it.

The third rule of time traveling is _don't forget to come home,_ and Kurt made him promise that even as he faded in his arms.

 _I'll always come home,_ he thinks, and looking around the bedroom, he quirks a tiny smile.

He is, in a very real sense, home.

The bed is unmade and the lights are out, so his younger self hasn't arrived yet. He sets to tidying the space, flicking on a lamp and making the bed carefully, cringing when he sees the empty pill bottles on the dresser.

Some days he thought he'd never get off those damn pills. He cried the first time he traveled into the future and saw them gone, and even if he'd had to hide in a closet like the creepiest creeper to ever creep to avoid being _seen_ , he'd been so grateful for that fleeting glimpse that he hadn't resented his ability once for almost a month thereafter.

He likes himself, likes _Blaine,_ even if some days he doesn't know who that is anymore.

And just then he walks through the door, and like a phantom Blaine disappears, leaving his younger self behind, a watery frown in place and a cast still cradling his left arm as he steps into the space and sees what his older self left behind, their lives converging constantly, like two magnets drawn together against time and space, repulsing in close proximity.

* * *

_February 20, 2016_

_Blaine is 22, Kurt is 22._

Blaine reappears only half a block away from where Sam and he were walking, and it's much later and a lot darker out, the streets quiet and tense and otherworldly, and suddenly he misses Sam's big, bulky warmth at his side, thinks about the Taser tucked in his pocket and how much it hurts to get stung. ( _Like hell,_ is his eloquent response when Sam asks, because no matter how cheeky he gets Blaine refuses to _Taser_ him to prove it.)

It doesn't make him feel safer but it gives him the power to walk home, at least, and push open the door.

There's dinner boxed in the fridge and even his satchel made it home, hanging on the door. He has work to do -- so much work to do, if he's being honest -- but he feels good, somehow, a warm glow taking the place of dread in his stomach.

It may not matter in the indefinable long run what he does for his younger self because every bruise heals and every broken bone mends, but he feels comforted knowing that he can ease some of the burden associated with those long, dark hours.

And if his own walk home is a little longer and darker that night, at least he has a husband to hold once he gets there.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


End file.
